My Dad brought home a fifty pound sack of condensed milk from work . . . he said he found it in a big room full of other neat things that the State bought and left just sitting there . . .waste not; pay not. And so shortly after the snow blizzard of 1967, Dad determined we would eschew the Hamilton Dairy for instant moo-juice. The stuff had the consistency of Spackle and the color of putty when mixed in a pitcher of ice cold water and with a spoonful of Nestle's Quick it would gag a maggot.
With Lolo [Soetoro], I learned how to eat small green chili peppers raw with dinner (plenty of rice), and, away from the dinner table, I was introduced to dog meat (tough), snake meat (tougher), and roasted grasshopper (crunchy). Like many Indonesians, Lolo followed a brand of Islam that could make room for the remnants of more ancient animist and Hindu faiths. He explained that a man took on the powers of whatever he ate: One day soon, he promised, he would bring home a piece of tiger meat for us to share.”
Dreams From My Father - Bark . . . Barack Obama
in Latin, he’d brag. Too bloody familiar,
she always threw back, resenting his mongrels
who mocked her in their dog thoughts, she suspected,
trailing her as she stomped around finding fault.
They see you as head bitch my darling, he sneered.
Well, someone appreciates me, she’d mutter,
softening for a moment. Then at it again:
When we married I married your bloody dogs.
The barking stopped for weeks after a black fog
stole her spirit, puzzled them into silence.
I have never got anything I wanted
in my life, she cried then. He sniggered. They sighed.
After a month she lifted up her head, smiled:
Well, it should be canis lupus vulgaris.
Tails began to wag. Tongues lolled. Dog breath wafted.
Great photo H/T - Creative Minority Report